Grace Takes Off (16 page)

“What did Pezzati do when Mr. Marshfield pointed out the counterfeit?” Rodriguez asked.

“He didn’t,” I said. “But we’re afraid Bennett’s reaction might have been noticed.”

“Who was in the group when this happened?” Rodriguez asked, jotting notes again.

I listed everyone: Signor Pezzati; his daughter, Irena; Angelo, the personal assistant;
and Cesare Sartori, the art dealer. I’d made a copy of the little man’s business card
and handed it to Flynn, who stared at it with contempt. For a flash of a moment, I
saw what he might have looked like as a little boy. I wondered what had soured him
so badly on life.

“What’s this Angelo’s last name?” Rodriguez asked.

I didn’t know.

Frances sat just outside our little triangle, watching our interplay with impatient
eyes. “I’m sure I could find out for you if you need it.”

Rodriguez rolled his tongue around in his mouth, like he was rearranging a meatball—a
pretty tasty one, from the looks of it. He finished by smacking his lips. “Let’s hold
off on that. You said yourself that Mr. Marshfield didn’t make any accusations. And
the thief who stole the original skull—if it really was stolen—might not have even
been present when you were there.”

“But—”

The older detective wagged his head. “It’s too thin. This business problem on the
other hand”—he went back to slogging his tongue around in his cheek—“that we can look
into.”

“I realize that a theft that occurred in Italy is out of your jurisdiction—”

Flynn barked a laugh. “I’ll say.”

“But what if—”

A slow smile broke over Rodriguez’s soft features. “You can’t help yourself, can you
Ms. Wheaton? Planning to help investigate, are you?”

I didn’t answer.

Frances sniffed. “Seems to me she’s had more success finding murderers than you two
have. I think you ought to listen to her.”

“That’s the problem, y’old busybody. Nobody asked you to think.”

“Whoa.” I stood, pointing a finger at Flynn. “That was uncalled for.”

Rodriguez reached over—a futile attempt to calm Flynn down. But the younger man wasn’t
paying attention. With hot anger shooting out in almost visible sparks, he stood,
too. “The two of you have been our biggest problem. If you’d stay out of our way and
let us do our jobs—”

“Then what?” I asked. “If we left you unchecked, our murder rate would skyrocket.”

Flynn’s face went white, then red. Without looking at Rodriguez, he said, “We’re done
here. Good luck keeping your boss safe,” and stormed out of the room.

Rodriguez heaved a deep sigh as he stood to leave. “I apologize for my young colleague.”

I waved his attempt away, ashamed of myself for letting my anger show. “My fault.
I shouldn’t have allowed it to escalate.”

Frances, who’d thrown the verbal jab that had started this skirmish, stood with her
arms folded across her chest, looking smug. I knew better than to expect any apologies
from her.

AS SOON AS THEY WERE GONE, FRANCES
dropped the self-righteous performance and reminded me that she had more news to share.
“You’re not the only one who’s had troubles these past few days.”

“You told me about Hillary,” I said. “What else?”

“Well . . .” She sat. I did, too. “We’ve gotten three landscape architects interested
in working for us. Two of them seem
particularly qualified
to pick up where Jack left off.” With the sly look that accompanied this pronouncement,
I took that to mean that the two in question were young, handsome, and single.

“What about the third?”

“She’s new to this part of the country.” Frances made an I-just-bit-into-a-lemon-face.
“And she’s single.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

She stared as though the answer were obvious. “Fox in the henhouse. Reverse the genders.
You
know
what I mean.”

Taken aback, I said, “Excuse me?”

“She would be competition,” she said with excruciating patience. “Right about now
that’s the last thing you need.”

I rubbed my eyebrows in frustration. “Nice to know you’re looking out for me, Frances.”

“Anytime,” she said, totally missing my sarcasm. “I have the two other landscapers
scheduled for interviews this week.”

“With me?”

“Who else?”

I shook my head. “Until I get to the bottom of who’s after Bennett, I can’t allow
myself to be distracted.”

Her mouth curled downward and her familiar raised-chin defensive posture returned.
“When I set up these interviews, I had no idea you’d be bringing a murder back with
you. How was I to know?”

“You couldn’t have known,” I said, absolving her. “Let’s reschedule them. And add
in that female landscaper, too.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“Frances,” I said, “we will not discriminate. No matter how convinced you are that
this fabulous woman will swoop in and destroy my chances for personal happiness. It
just wouldn’t be right.”

She took that in with characteristic scorn. “Suit yourself.”

• • •

MY PHONE RANG A SHORT WHILE LATER. “INCOMING,”
TERRENCE SAID WHEN I answered.

“What happened?”

“We’re heading back to Marshfield. Right now. Can you get a meeting room ready?”

Confused, I found myself sputtering. “I don’t understand. Who wants to meet at Marshfield?
Why are you on your way back so early? Did Deinhart try something?”

“Deinhart pitched a fit when he saw us. He accused Mr. Marshfield of making a spectacle
by bringing bodyguards. He refused to continue the proceedings with us in attendance.”
I heard Bennett’s voice in the background, grumbling. “Needless to say, it made an
already tense situation worse. The board sided with Deinhart, claiming that our presence
would make us privy to confidential information.” Terrence sighed, then spoke more
quietly. I could tell his hand was cupped over the mouthpiece. “Bennett wanted to
banish us right then and there, but I reminded him how upset you would be.”

“You’re coming here?”

“It was the only compromise I could come up with on the spot. If we have Bennett at
Marshfield, we control security. Deinhart balked at the idea—surprise, surprise—but
the board overruled because some issue needs to be resolved today or else. We’ll be
there in thirty minutes.”

“How many?”

“A dozen plus Mr. Marshfield. Lucky thirteen. You good?”

“I will be,” I said, and hung up. My mind raced. I needed a room big enough, with
a large enough table to handle thirteen business professionals. Not only that, I knew
Bennett would want us to use a room that showcased Marshfield’s beauty. He was the
kindest and most generous of men, but he did have a prideful streak.

I scratched my forehead, zipping through possibilities in my mind, discounting them
one by one. Finding a suitable room wouldn’t ordinarily be a problem here. What made
it difficult was the fact that we were in the middle of the day and there were tourists
everywhere. The only areas not on the tour that were large enough for this sort of
gathering were either in the process of getting renovated, or currently being used
for storage. Unless . . .

Bennett had a gorgeous dining room in his living quarters, one level up.

Before I could stand, I noticed Frances hovering in the doorway. She held a walkie-talkie
in her hand. “I alerted the Mister’s butlers. You’re figuring to use the dining room?
They’re getting it ready now.”

The woman had read my mind. Again. “How do you do that?”

She offered a flat smile, which was, for her, a colossal display of humor. “Part of
my job description.”

• • •

“YOU’VE LOST WEIGHT, THEO.” I LEANED TO
whisper to the formerly chubby butler as our guests spilled into Bennett’s private
dining room. “You look wonderful. I wanted to say something earlier, but it was crazy
here.”

“Crazy is certainly an understatement.” Theo kept his eyes front, but allowed a small
smile. He nodded to each guest as he or she filed past. “Thank you for the compliment,
Ms. Wheaton. I’ve been watching my diet and exercising a bit. Doctor’s orders.”

We’d used every free hand in the house to prepare this room in record time. Fortunately,
it was a stunning setting to begin with. Paneled oak walls stretched ten feet from
the floor ending with an intricately carved oak crown molding. This was topped by
more wall—plaster this time—painted a gentle maize, with bas-relief Marshfield Family
crests trimmed in white.

Four tall windows draped in ocher satin overlooked the south grounds, and a massive
blue rug covered most of the hardwood floor. Because Bennett used this dining room
regularly, it was in perfect condition for today’s event at a moment’s notice. While
it wasn’t the largest dining room in the home, it had been designed to accommodate
twenty for dinner. Our group of thirteen would have plenty of elbow room.

Terrence stood just inside the far entrance door, guiding the group to seats around
the rectangular oak table that sat at the room’s center. My powers of deduction zinging
into high gear, I scanned each and every face, trying to determine which of these
people might be Vandeen Deinhart. Of the twelve newcomers, five were women. Of the
seven males, four were of ethnicities that wouldn’t likely match the surname. That
left three potential suspects.

The group milled about, talking among themselves in the way people who have worked
together do. Polite, stilted. Theo approached each member asking what he or she would
prefer to drink. He was joined by another butler, who took orders on the other side
of the room.

The group was dressed conservatively: dark suits and crisp white shirts; bright ties
for the men. Bennett spotted me and made his way over just as I zoomed in on a gentleman
in his sixties who stood at the far window, hands clasped behind his back, scowling.
He wore his middle-aged paunch with confidence and style. Taller than my five-foot-eight,
he had a full head of dyed red hair, sideburns tastefully left white. It had to be
Deinhart.

I made my way toward Bennett, noting belatedly that he wasn’t alone. With him was
a thin-to-the-point-of-emaciated man with deep-set, haunted eyes and a bit of a limp.
I judged him to be a few years older than me, and a few inches taller, too. His dark
suit coat would have looked more filled out on a wire hanger. I hoped he was wearing
suspenders because that drooping belt couldn’t be working.

Bennett made introductions with a cheerful glint in his eye. “Grace, I’d like you
to meet Vandeen Deinhart. Van, this is Grace Wheaton. She runs Marshfield Manor and
is my most trusted advisor.”

Though taken aback by the fact that Deinhart looked nothing like I’d imagined, I offered
my hand, resisting the urge to wince as his cold, sweaty palm crushed against my warm
one. Deinhart’s voice matched his physique—high and raspy. “Pleased to meet you. Bennett
speaks of you often.” From the unmistakable aroma that rolled out as he spoke, he
had to be a four-pack-a-day guy.

Before I could say a word, he stepped a little closer. His eyes were set so deeply
I couldn’t even make out their color. “I hope you know you aren’t allowed in this
meeting. Board members only.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I said as though he hadn’t just been extraordinarily rude.
“I’m here to ensure you have everything you need before the meeting begins.” I indicated
the far wall of the dining room, where appetizers were being set out atop one of the
antique sideboards. “We’ve prepared a few offerings for all of you to enjoy.” Turning
to Bennett, I asked, “Will your guests be staying for a late lunch? Early dinner?”

“Unfortunately not,” he said, eyes still glittering with amusement. “These important
people have busy lives. We don’t want to delay them unduly.” I could practically read
his mind.
Get them out of here as soon as possible.

“Very good.” To Deinhart, I said, “It was nice meeting you.”

The other board members were beginning to choose seats. I hurried over to Theo and
let him know that as soon as he and the rest of the staff had taken care of our guests’
needs, they should take their leave. “But you’ll want to stay nearby just in case.”

“What about you?” he asked. “Will you return to your office?”

“I think I’ll remain up here. I can get some work done in the study. I’ll ask Frances
to bring my laptop.”

He nodded, finished rearranging the buffet’s display, and gestured for the other servers
to follow him out. I trailed behind.

Deinhart crossed the room at a quick enough clip to cut me off before I reached the
door. “Ms. Wheaton,” he said, with a clammy hand to my forearm. “A moment?”

I glanced around for Bennett, but he had his back to me, in deep conversation with
the dyed red–haired man I’d originally believed was our quarry. I shifted my attention
to the question at hand. “Is there something you need?”

“Your assistance.” I felt surrounded by his personal cloud of smoke as he stepped
closer, invading my personal space. “As Bennett’s trusted advisor, you need to inform
him that this business venture he’s attempting is a terrible mistake.”

“Why would I do that?”

“You wouldn’t want anything bad to happen to Bennett, would you?”

“Is that a threat?”

“Don’t be silly.” His brows came together and he stepped even closer as though to
encourage me to keep my voice down. I stepped back. “I’m merely trying to help.”

“Of course you are.”

My sarcasm was not lost on this man. “Mark my words, Grace,” he said. I hated that
he used my name with such easy familiarity. “I’m giving you good advice.” He turned
to leave, but threw one more comment over his shoulder, in a whisper. “Don’t underestimate
me.”

• • •

I WAS DEEP INTO CRAFTING A STAFF MEMO
about changes from our health-care provider when the phone rang. I’d set up a workstation
of sorts in Bennett’s study and had asked Frances to route any important calls to
the phone there, so I shouldn’t have been surprised. Still, I jumped.

“Grace Wheaton,” I said.

Frances was on the other end. “The Mister’s friend Signor Pezzati is on the line.
Wants to talk with him.”

“Bennett is still in the board meeting.”

Her tone took on an impatient air. “I know that. But Signor Pezzati is beside himself.
Extremely agitated. I asked if he’d be willing to talk with you, and after some convincing,
he agreed.”

“Agitated? About what?”

“How would I know?” she asked in a huff. I wanted to remind her that she supposedly
knew everything, but maybe her powers didn’t reach across the Atlantic. “I’ll put
him through.”

A moment later I thrust the receiver away from my ear. Frances had put the call through,
all right, but Pezzati had taken that very moment to shout orders—or complaints, it
was hard to tell—in aggravated Italian. From what I could tell, the recipient of his
anger was the bearlike Angelo. I waited for Pezzati to finish his high-octane harangue
before bringing the phone closer.

“Signor Pezzati?” I began. “Are you there?”

“Ah, Grace! I am so sorry to bother you. My good friend is in a meeting, yes?”

“He is; I’m sorry I won’t be able to disturb him. Is there anything I can help you
with?”

He made a noise in his throat. “He trusts you. I suppose I must.”

I tried again. “I’ll do whatever I can.”

He mumbled something unintelligible. “Perhaps I should not share a confidence, but
my dear friend Bennett explained more about the nature of your relationship.”

“What did he tell you?”

“He told me about his father. With your grandmother.”

In a rush, I remembered how Pezzati’s attitude toward me had changed after my return
from the washroom that first day. Bennett certainly hadn’t wasted any time. “A blood
relationship has never been proved.”

“Only because you haven’t yet agreed to a test.”

I took a breath. “It seems you and Bennett have no secrets from one another.”